Chapter Four: Thought

Thought: those who wish to energize need only direct their thoughts toward the desired target...think about it.
  
Sam Killian is restless, and extremely tired of road trips. His is the type of restlessness that requires a couch and a remote control. Mimi's enthusiasm is his only motivating factor. Sam makes the mistake of whining one time, really winding out a high-pitched and childish whine, and within minutes Mimi appears wearing a "No Whining Please" button on her baseball cap. Enough said. 
It's Sunday - road trip day. Only this day, Mimi has a surprise for Sam. They are heading to the mountains for romance and relaxation, sans touring, sans Polaroid. Mimi has booked a suite at the intimate Emerald Cave Resort and Spa. She's in total control while driving, and glides through the serpentines of Skyline Drive as if piloting a jet. Sam's nauseated; he's never liked to fly. 
The Emerald's owner, Robere, isn't French, but drops the t in favor of the e; it adds a touch of flair to his naturally Gay Paree spirit. Robere welcomes Sam and Mimi and offers them a personally guided tour of his paradise. The fourteen suites are galleries of jewel-toned velvet quilts, original oils, and expensive pottery. Each has a private courtyard connecting to a garden path. "A most incredible milieu for creative meditation, non?" says Sam in his best French designer impression. Not one room has a television, but all are wired for exquisite sound. "I don't believe in pabulum for the masses, "says Robere. 
Robere encourages Sam and Mimi to join the other guests for drinks at five p.m. Making no firm commitment, they are free to conjoin instead under a ceiling of amethyst, in the realm of pure energy, and breathe in perfect rhythm and keep perfect timeless time. Reality comes too soon. "Good morning, lovebirds," Robere chirps as Mimi answers the knock on the door. "I assume all is well here? You look rested and ready for sustenance." He hands Mimi a basket filled with warm croissants as he carries a pot of coffee to the side table. 
"Amazing anyone in the inn is rested, considering Mimi's excitement over your CD collection," Sam says and grins. 
Mimi declines coffee; Robere pours two large mugs and hands one to Sam. He pirouettes slightly, turns to Mimi and asks, "Oh? What did you discover that suits you, Mimi?"
"Your entire collection, but especially Al Dimeola's Elegant Gypsy," says Mimi. "It's one of my all-time favorites."
 "She danced for a solid hour, Robere," says Sam, with just a touch of whine in his voice. "I hope our neighbors didn't complain."
"No worries, Sam. The rooms are soundproof," assures Robere.
"Well! See, Sam? I can dime the volume!"
"Not without splitting my head in two. Robere, do you sell earplugs?"
"I'll dance naked tonight, "Mimi laughs. "You won't hear a thing."
"Sounds like you two will need a nap this afternoon," says Robere, winking. "Do you have plans for today?"
"I don't want to be a pest," says Sam slowly, "but may I see your kitchen?"
"Sure, Sam, "says Robere, "but the guys are in the middle of prepping lunch. I'm sure it's a mess."
"He's a pro, Robere," says Mimi. "He'll stay out of harm's way."
Robere claps his hands together. "Really, Sam? Are you a chef? We're in need of a chef."
"Mostly just an owner now," says Sam, "but I've worked around."
"Don't be so humble, Sam, "Mimi says. "You're incredible."
"Well." Robere gestures toward the door. "Shall we go right now?"
"Sure," says Sam, grabbing a croissant. "May I come, too?" asks Mimi, already following them out the door. She's not waiting for permission.
Robere clips along the garden path through a hidden private gate leading to the kitchen patio and back door. "May I ask what restaurant?"
"It's a little eighty-four seater called Steeles," says Sam.
"I know that place!" Status-conscious Robere becomes more attentive; Sam's value is now clear. "One of my guys worked there back in the mid-eighties, I think."
"Before my time," Sam says. "I was working in New York then."
Mimi examines the huge herb pots outside the kitchen door; she rubs her hands across a bush of thyme to freshen the air, and closes her eyes.  Sam frowns and whispers, "Mimi, don't touch that. It's not yours." "It's okay, Sam, I'm not hurting anything," Mimi whispers back, smiling. But, she feels awkward; maybe Sam's right, she thinks. I'll keep my hands to myself.
"Oh no, you'll recognize him," Robere says. "He's been everywhere. Has an ancient tie to the business. I can't tell if he's forty, or eighty, or somewhere in between." Robere leads the way through the back door and into a large kitchen; natural light bathes the prep mess in sunny gold. "Look to your right, Sam. Recognize him?" Robere hands Mimi a cup of fresh-squeezed orange juice from the cooler, and pours Sam a fresh cup of coffee.
"I'll be damned. It's the hippie dude. Last I heard he was following The Dead," says Sam, surprised by the sight of the old sous chef. "He got busted for selling bean burritos out of the back of his van," Robere says, watching the hippie dude slowly sharpen a knife. "At least that's the story he tells you," Sam replies. "Oh, he's quite harmless. And very mellow," says Robere.
"He ought to be mellow after eating mushrooms everyday for ten years," says Sam. Mimi shoots Sam a look of consternation. "It's the truth!" says Sam. "This guy's so fried he can't remember his own name. Watch." Sam approaches the hippie. "Harry, how you doing? Remember me? Sam Killian." The hippie turns around, takes a slow look at Sam, and says dryly, "Name's Henry."
Mimi spews orange juice and Robere chokes on his coffee as they turn and run for the back door, collapsing against each other in a fit of hysterical laughter. "What's the hippie's name?" Mimi asks between gasps of breath. "I thought it was David," says Robere, barely able to speak. They laugh hard enough to cry a rainbow, cementing the friendship bond through a joint bout of magic banshee shrieking. By the time Sam joins them on the patio, Robere has made a gut decision. Over fresh berries and more croissants, Robere, Sam and Mimi come to an agreement. Mimi will manage the front of the house; Sam will rule as Chef and Kitchen Manager. Included in the package are monthly commissions, health insurance, and a lovely cottage within walking distance to The Emerald.
Sam sells his percentage of Steeles to his partner the very next week. Mimi coordinates the move, and helps traumatized Tim hire someone patient enough to spend two hours inspecting brown rice with a magnifying glass; however, Mimi's replacement, Jenny, refuses to touch okra, much less cook it. "Tim honey," Jenny says, "I have the perfect okra recipe. Want to hear it?"
"But I like it fried," Tim pleads. Jenny looks hard at Tim and says, "I know, but this one is better for you." Speaking over Tim's meek attempt at interruption, she recites, "Plunge four pounds of fresh okra pods into boiling salt water. Cook for twenty minutes. Flush down the toilet. How's that work for you?"
"Once a month?" Tim's not giving up.
"Only if you cook it yourself." Jenny will not budge.
"I'll pay more on okra days!"
"I'll play hooky on okra days. There will be no okra days, Tim." Tim struggles, and asks the deal-breaking question. "Do you like Janis Joplin?"
"I love her like a sister, Tim," Jenny answers. She opens her purse and pulls out a small bag of hot peppers.  Tim's eyes grow round. "Oh, and by the way, Janis didn't eat okra."
"How do you know that?"
"I just know," says Jenny. And that's the end of that.

Sam is a suspicious man by birth, but he's learning to let go and flow, to dance with the Universe instead of fighting so hard to remain seated. Mimi tells him the Emerald Inn stint will be a short-term test of their ability to maintain love and respect under intense working conditions. "Better to find out now, Sam, before we buy something." She says they will succeed. Sam knows Mimi's right, knows that his itch for a shot of vodka - right now - will pass. In less than six months, Sam has married, moved twice, and changed jobs, all in the name of Love. He's the walking example of textbook AA no-no's. Uh-oh. God grant me.

Sam and Mimi are headline news in Emerald Cove. The entire town dresses in church clothes and turns out for The Emerald's inaugural Sunday brunch. In less than two hours, Sam, the hippie, and Warren, a young apprentice with high aspirations, whip out seventy-five stellar orders of Eggs Benedict, forty perfect brie and apple omelets, and fifteen orders of mountain trout stuffed with lump crab meat. Robere wisely stays in his private quarters, drinking champagne and talking anxiously on the telephone, until brunch is over. Mimi tries to disguise the wait staff's lack of fine dining experience, but she can't turn chicken shit into chicken salad overnight.
"Sweet or unsweet?" they smack, approaching a table with two plastic tea pitchers. Against all odds, these people can chew gum and walk at the same time. "Want more butter? Hey, let her borrow your butter," they say, reaching across three customers for the bowl. "Her bread's gettin' cold and you know how hard this real stuff is to spread. I like margarine better for its spreadin' properties." To the unfortunate customer harboring a visible goiter the size of a golf ball on his neck, a server gives this medical advice: "Sir, you better get that lump checked out. My mama had one just like that, only bigger. Turned out to be a boil. You wouldn't believe the pus that came outta that thing - wudda filled your coffee cup. Smell alone about knocked me over. By the time we got her to the hospital, she had red streaks runnin' down her neck."  Look at that. The nice man left her a dollar.
Warren, a local community school student earning his GED, works as a dishwasher during the week, but is recruited for table service this Sunday; Mimi summons him to the kitchen. "M'am? What'd I do wrong, Miz Killian?"
"Spit your gum into this napkin right now, Warren," orders Mimi. "and see that sink over there? Wash your hands right this minute." Mimi snaps, overwhelmed by the smell of chicken shit. Warren's chewing gum tried and failed to disguise the smell of a morning forty-ounce. The kid wants to be sober. He wants to impress. A little direction and nurturing might carry him down the right road, Mimi thinks as she studies Warren's elegant face. There's a vulnerability exuding from Warren; even jaded and recovering Sam has taken a liking to him.
"Mary Lu, wipe that sauce off your face. Never eat leftovers from anyone's plate. You don't know what kind of contagious disease they might have. Keep moving, people. It's a new day!" Mimi needs oxygen. "What's the matter, Jane?"
"I can't do this, Miz Killian."
Mimi puts her hands on Jane's shoulders and gives her a little shake. "Yes you can, Jane. The customers love you. Stop crying now. Please honey, you're doing great - better than anyone else!" Mimi attempts to comfort Jane with a couple of coos, but it sounds more like she's choking on a lie.
"No, I cain't do it. I'm worse than anybody. I gotta go I just gotta go I gotta go right now, okay? I gotta go I gotta go Lord. I gotta go. I cain't do this one more minute I swear I cain't." Jane is beyond hope.
"Oh Jane, please, Jane please, no Jane, please, just another hour and it will be over. Hang in there Jane. I'll give you an extra twenty bucks if you stay until the end."
Sam turns from the hot stove and yells, "Mimi, get her the hell out of my kitchen! Keep them all away from me, dammit, or I swear this knife is going up somebody's ass!" Jane throws Mimi her apron and runs for the door.
"Chill, Sam, they're doing the best they can," Mimi sighs. Covered in invisible chicken shit that, thankfully, only she can smell, she heads back into the make-shift dining room where customers are cleaning their plates. Back of House, one; Front of House, zero. But who's keeping score?
Robere can't stand it anymore. High on champagne and anxiety, he enters the din of activity, crow-hops to the edge of a black baby grand piano, and awkwardly sprawls across it. People everywhere! Who are these heathens? They eat from card tables in The Emerald's sitting room, spill coffee on his antique Turkish rugs, leave sticky fingerprints on his matched pair of flawless 18th century French mirrors. He shrinks under the weight of his madness. Despite his experience in the service industry - or because of it - Robere hates people. Unwrapping the pretty package reveals a messy interior.
Mimi glides to him and gently, as if calming a stray, tames him back into his cage - a palatial suite at the far end of a well-appointed first floor hall. Thank God, no stairs, thinks Mimi. This is the exact moment Robere begins to hate Mimi. She has rearranged all of his furniture to accommodate the brunch crowd, and her seating chart works. "Beginner's luck," snips Robere loudly as Mimi guides him down the hall. "You know nothing about this business, Mimi." He jerks away from her arm and staggers through the door to his quarters. "I want these people out of my house immediately." He heads for the bathroom.
Mimi says, "Robere, calm down. It's almost over, and you will see how successful this day has been when we run the numbers for you. Just rest now. Sam will call you in an hour or so." Mimi pauses. "Robere, are you alright in there? I'm leaving now." No answer. "Robere, are you okay?" Robere throws open the bathroom door, lunges at Mimi, and grabs her bare shoulders. His hands are ice. "Meet me in the library in fifteen minutes." He is suddenly stone cold sober. "And be prepared to go home. You have destroyed my reputation in this community with your amateurish style!" Robere is over-wired with bantam aggression. Mimi backs toward the center of the hall as Robere wipes spittle from the corner of his mouth, lowers his eyes, and twists the kinks from his neck; only thing missing from this fighting cock are the spurs. "Fifteen minutes, Mimi. And do something with your hair. You look like a witch." Mimi takes a deep breath, backs up another step and quietly says, "Robere, it appears you've had a bit too much champagne. Let's wait until tomorrow when we're more on even keel. Sam needs me to help him clean up and we still have customers. Excuse me." As Mimi turns her back on him, Robere yells, "Where are you going? Turn around and look at me, you little bitch!" She hears his door slam as she rounds the corner toward the kitchen.
Mimi utters prayers under her breath as she scurries through the kitchen door. "Sam! I need you." He hears the urgency in her voice, and is immediately beside her. One look at her face and he's worried. "What the hell, Mimi? What's going on?"
"Listen. Robere's drunk and confrontational. He wants to ream me a new one in the library - I have fifteen minutes until showdown, and we have three customers in the sitting room who won't budge. They've paid, but they're hanging. What do I do?"
Sam readjusts his apron. "Don't worry about the customers. I'll ask Warren to give them a tour of the garden." He takes Mimi's hand and says, "Just remember this - you cannot argue with a drunk.  I'll finish up, and then I'll sit by the door and be your wingman.  Just center yourself and be calm." The hippie, who speaks in two-word sentences, says, "Good luck." Mimi nods her head, feeling like a boxer going in for round two. "Remember to breathe," Sam says. "You can handle him." Mimi looks for something to do - a plate to scrape, a server to kick into gear, but finds everything under control. "We're in good shape, honey," Sam says. "Go on out there. You can do this, I know you can. Atta girl, we have your back." Mimi hears the bell signaling the beginning of the next round and takes a step toward the hall. Sam puts his hand on Mimi's head and gently turns her toward him. He looks her square in the eye and says, "Mimi, remember: you cannot argue with a drunk. Got it?"

She sits in the red tapestry wingback chair facing the door. Robere glowers as he enters the library right behind her. Mimi has taken his seat, so he stands and begins his verbal assault. The first punch strikes close to the target. "You know nothing, Mimi. Admit it. You know absolutely nothing about the restaurant business. You are ruining my house with your crazy ideas. The only reason I hired you is because of Sam. You're bad for business. Do you agree?"
I cannot argue with a drunk, but I will stand my ground, Mimi thinks. She takes a deep breath and looks calmly at Robere. "No, Robere, I do not agree."
"Say it, Mimi. Say you're bad for my business."
"I won't say that."
"You're in way over your head, little girl. Say you agree. Say it, Mimi!"
"No, Robere, I won't say that."
"The way you flirt with the customers - it's shameful. You are bad for my business. I want you to leave. Sam gets to stay. Will you agree to that?"
"No, Robere. I will not agree to that. Sam and I are a team." Mimi successfully deflects Robere's best shots. She stands and looks at him, unscathed. As she walks to the door, Robere flops into the red chair, all fight leaving his crumbling facade. "Oh, Mimi. Oh Mimi, Mimi darling. You really are a friend. You really are." He begins to sniffle. "Only my best friends in the world will take this crap from me. Oh, Mimi, you really are a friend." Robere is now weeping.
"Robere, I'm going home now. We'll talk tomorrow."
"Okay, Mimi. But will you help me get to my room? I need to lie down." Sam, standing outside the door, intercepts Robere and eases him down the hall. Mimi floats like a butterfly to the kitchen, bums a cigarette from the hippie dude, walks out the kitchen door and collapses into a cold hard chair.

Mimi can't get warm. She wakes up shivering, and gets out of bed for a blanket. With her first step, she falls to the floor and crawls the distance on her hands and knees, shaking with seizure-like intensity. Mimi is living in Siberia. Her bones have turned to ice. She thinks Robere has sucked all the warmth from her body and replaced it with numbing cold. And she's right; Robere casts a spell. He writes her name on paper, crumples the paper until it's the size of a sleet pellet, drenches the pellet in water, and places it in the freezer. Robere puts Mimi on ice.

...

Robere's marketing strategy entices small groups to book The Emerald for employee training sessions and personal growth seminars. Mimi's primary responsibility is to sell sell sell all-inclusive packages to bankers, trainers, and spiritual gurus. A sunlit conference room with lush carpet and the latest high-tech gadgetry motivates even the most conservative Human Resources director to sign Mimi's contracts. She is an able and compelling negotiator with a flair for developing instant rapport with her clients, and Robere is smart enough to recognize her talent. The Emerald's traffic increases dramatically within two months, but Robere creates road blocks that Mimi cannot dismantle.
The in-house phone rings. Mimi, hands full of fresh-cut flowers, quickly places them in a large cut-crystal vase and answers on the third ring. "Hi, this is Mimi, how can I help you?" Robere strides into the vestibule and rearranges the flowers to suit him, cutting his eyes at Mimi.
"Mimi, this is Sandra Holman with Southern National. We have a problem."
"I'm sorry, Ms. Holman. What's wrong?" Robere listens intently.
"We're scheduled for breakfast in fifteen minutes. Our meeting starts in one hour, and we're out of hot water down here. Only eight of us have had showers." Robere, chest cocked out, motions for the receiver.
"One moment. Robere would like to speak with you."
Robere grabs the telephone from Mimi's hand and rolls his ice-blue eyes. "Good morning, Sandra," he says coldly.
"Robere, there something wrong with the water heaters down here, or maybe a pipe's burst. We have no hot water for showers."
"How many people are in your group?" Mimi eavesdrops as she moves the flowers to a small antique table by the door.
"Twenty-four."
"Well, there's the problem. You need to stagger your showers."
"Excuse me?" Mimi hears Sandra's sharp voice although the phone is several feet from her.
"It's very simple," Robere answers. "Eight take showers in the morning, eight take showers in the afternoon, and eight take showers at night. Then everyone will have a hot shower. Problem solved."
There is a pause, and then Sandra's incredulous voice fills the front room. "Wait a minute, Robere. Southern is paying you over sixty-thousand dollars this year, according to our contract. We have no hot water. Most of us haven't had showers. And you're telling me problem solved?"
"I'm telling you there is no problem if you stagger your showers, Sandra. Otherwise, you have created a problem for yourself." Robere looks at Mimi and winks. He really does. Then he hangs up the phone, walks to the antique table, picks up the vase of flowers, moves them back to the desk, and begins to rearrange them, again. Less than a minute later, Sandra marches into the main house lobby wearing a bathrobe, a towel wrapped around her head. Her lips are blue and she's shivering mad. Mimi looks at Sandra's wide-eyed glare, and sees a storm brewing, a strong storm of three-shot espresso magnitude. "How much money have I paid you to date, Robere?"
"Ten-thousand dollars, Sandra." Robere moves the flowers back to the table. Sandra says, "As well as a five-thousand-dollar deposit for our next session, correct?" Robere continues to play with his flowers, and turns his back on the unhappy Sandra. "Yes, a non-refundable deposit, according to our contract."
Sandra doesn't yield. "Here's the deal, you little dipshit. You send that five-thousand dollars back to my company immediately, or I will be on the phone today - and I mean today - calling every event planner I know."
Robere turns to Sandra and puffs out his little chest to maximum capacity; he looks like a wicked little yard gnome. "Oh hell, you go ahead, Sandra, if it'll make you feel better. You are small potatoes. You have no idea who my real clients are. That money is non-refundable and you know it." Mimi stands stock-still. She is the solo member of what would surely be a riveted audience, if only tickets were available to this drama. "Listen closely, Robere. We are coming for breakfast in a few minutes - the whole angry mob of us. After that, we will spend the rest of the morning in our meeting because we're set up for that. Then, we are leaving. And we won't be back in this lifetime; I can assure you of that."
              Robere shoots back. "What do you want to do about the lunch you've ordered? I'm charging you for that. It's not free, you know, so you might as well eat it."
              "I want you to shove it up your ass. The check better be in the mail, Robere, or our attorney will be in touch." She grabs a handful of flowers on her way out the door and throws them at Robere's retreating back as he flares down the hall to his suite for a morning pick-me-up from his bedside bar.
              As Sandra Holman and her motley crew of bank execs march to The Emerald for breakfast, they must sidestep a smelly path paved with what looks like melting Snickers Bars. The septic tank has ruptured and the entire upper yard in covered in feces. The bank's money is direct-deposited into Robere's instant karma account.